Au Revoir, Pee Wee

I know, I know. I just left without saying a word.
I thought that I might come back, and I tried. Really. I did try.
But, I think you and me and this blog are over.
I have pondered what happened and why. And yesterday it came to me.
It has to do with friendships, a need for deep connection, and change.

I moved to the middle of the woods 4 years ago.
I didn't know anyone here and at the same time, many of my friends from my former life began falling away.
I soon found myself so lonely that I didn't even recognize it.
Out of this emptiness and pain, I began to write.
And my writing became my friend.
I was able to write about everything that I would share with a true friend. The type of friendship that I craved, one that was deeper than drinks once a month or conversations while everyone texts.

Don't get me wrong here. There is a place for casual friendships, drinks and even texting. But, I learned that I wanted more than that. And I learned that through the silence, through the loneliness, through writing and through time spent only with my Creator.

And through all of those things, I became comfortable with myself and what I really wanted. I became comfortable being transparent and winnowing out the things that were poisoning me. Much like a farmer burning a field or pruning back trees or vines.

And then something happened. I began making friends in my new home.
It began with one or two. Then more.
My heart filled to the bursting point.
And my old friend, writing, just didn't call me and want to have coffee with me anymore.
I will always write, but probably not as a blogger.
But who knows?
Writing this blog saved me, along with the people that extended kindness to me along the way.

I was going to close this baby on up with a final stand on my soapbox.
But instead, I'll leave you with that other side of my personality.
Au revoir.

I Love You, Man

God's definition of what matters is pretty straightforward. He measures our lives by how we love. — Francis Chan

There you go.

I read this today on Facebook, where I get 50% of my information. Okay, who am I fooling? 75%.

Anyhow, the absolute truth of it continues to resonate deep within me, sending waves to every cell within my body and then deeper to my soul.

Love.

In word and in deed.

Indeed.

When I match up the things that I say and do up to the standard of love, how do I fare?

If my beliefs and my values do not speak love, they should be discarded as worthless. As trash. As lies.

Love.

So simple, yet we try to make it so much more complicated.

Love.

Cure-all

'Tis the season for it. You know what I am talking about - getting run down.
Too many late nights. Too much rushing here and then there.
It takes a toll on us, wears us down.
And then, BAM! Next thing you know, you have a sore throat or stuffy nose.
Miserable.

What if I told you about a little secret?
And I'm not talking about swigging some nasty green pharmaceutical and then falling into a medicine stupor.
My little Cure-All Remedy comes from my grandma, Gladys Bell Ennis Verquin.
Now, before I fill you in on the secret remedy, I need to tell you about my grandma.
She was born in 1902 and lived in Frank, Alberta where a mountain fell on top of her. But she survived.
She was a tough little bird.
And little she was, hitting a maximum height of 4'11" (she always said 5'0", but she was just fudging).
At the age of 16, she became the bride of a 44 year old rancher, by way of an arranged marriage. Not long after the birth of their first and only child, her husband died, leaving her to run the ranch alone.
Now, I am not going to give you all the blow-by-blow details, but I think you get the idea about what kind of woman my grandma was. She was tough, she knew what was good for ya, but she was also tender and sweet.

My cousins and I recently were together on Thanksgiving, and we reminisced about the remedy that our grandmother gave us for various ailments. We all agreed that it worked for pretty much everything from colds and flu to stomach aches. I have been known to drink it before riding in the car over an icy and snowy mountain pass.
It doesn't have a formal name, so you can just call it Grandma's Recipe.

2 T local honey
2 T fresh squeezed lemon juice
2 shots Irish whiskey
Boiling water

Mix together with your face over the steam, inhaling as you stir.
Adjust amounts to taste, but it should be strong.
Go to bed and you'll wake up well.

*Note* My cousin recalls butter in the recipe. It couldn't hurt.

Thankful

I love Thanksgiving. Just love it.
I love the family, friends, food, and the idea that as a nation we are collectively being thankful.
Now, it is pretty easy to be thankful for the standard things. And I am. Supremely thankful.
But, can you also be thankful for the more, uh, odd things?
Let's see...

Family
I thank God every day for my husband and sons. They are easy to be thankful for.
How about my mother-in-law? Yup. Thankful for her too.
Even though she has refused to come to Thanksgiving at our house and will instead stay home alone.
Why?
Bears.
She is afraid of bears.
According to her, they can break down doors, you know.
I think someone has watched a little too much Animal Planet.

Am I thankful for my own mother? Eh, okay.
This one is a little tougher.
I am thankful that I'm not like her.
Oh wait, I am trying to be thankful for her.
How about, I am thankful for her occasional reminder of how I am not like her?
Heh.

Health
I am one healthy person. I am always thankful that I don't get colds or the flu. Seriously, once I went 10 years without getting a cold. That is some record. Thankful.

But let me tell you, you don't know thankful until you've had some Herpes 1 (that's on your lips, people) clear up. For crying out loud, I don't know how people that have the other kind stop from castrating themselves. It must be horrible (if you do happen to have it, you have my sincerest of sympathies and all the compassion I can muster up).

Now, back to being thankful.
I had an outbreak for 9 MONTHS, with the exception of the time we were in Costa Rica, where it magically went away. Except for 9 months, I had no idea what it was. I had had it once before a long time ago. Back in the day of wearing blood red, matte lipstick. I had just thought that I developed an allergy to the lipstick.
But then 20 years later it shows up again.
For 9 months I endured blisters, pus, cracking and the most chapped lips of all time.
And for those of you that saw me and wondered what was up with those nasty chapped lips, well now you know.
Then I finally went to see my doctor.
Herpes.
Got some meds and BAM! Cleared up.
I am so thankful that I could cry.
P.S. I am pretty sure that I know where I got it, and if I ever see you again, sucker, I will kick you in the balls.
P.P.S. Also thankful that no one else in my family got it.

Food, Shelter, Clothing
This Thanksgiving, I am especially thankful for these things. We came thisclose to losing our house, and I know that many people out there cannot say the same thing. I am thankful that we have enough good, healthy food and warm clothing. Especially knowing that there are people in this world that do not. Ever.

I am even thankful for my fat jeans that I am currently wearing because they make me feel less guilty about the eggnog that I have in my coffee or the fact that Jillian Michaels and I are on a temporary break-up.

Then there are the skinny jeans that I bought at the consignment store that I am trying to be thankful for. I guess I'll be thankful for how cute they are when they are not on me.

Place That I Live
I am blessed to not only live in a country that is free (well, barely), safe (mostly), and prosperous (yikes, getting less so), but I live in one of the absolute best places within that country.
The beauty here is astounding. I am thankful every single day when I look out my front door.
I am thankful for the seasons. Even the pristine, white snow.

Remind me of this 5 months from now when I will be ready to ram my skull into a tree because of all that endless, pristine, white snow.

Happy Thanksgiving.
I am thankful for you, too.

P.S. One last thing. In reading my post, I realize that I must also be thankful for italics.

Memories

Her memory was incomparable.
One could ask why? Or how? And she could answer them confidently.
Because everything matters to me.
The words, the smells, the feelings, the environment.
All of it.

Her earliest memory was around the age of one.
She tried to dig back deeper. And she did find some.
But were they real? Or were they stories turned into pictures, turned into faded slides, that sometimes masquerade as an actual memory? This was always a mystery to her. She could say with stern assurance though, that she could feel the memory of feeling from birth. Does this count as memory? To her it did. After all, what does one have at birth? Feeling.

At one, she sat in her highchair in the kitchen.
She could hear the metal-on-metal sound of the tray being attached, and then the smooth feel of the cool tray beneath her pudgy, dimpled hands. She could smell her mother, dish soap, and the vinyl of the seat of her chair.
What went wrong?
This part of the memory has been lost. Perhaps eaten by time, perhaps sent to a different file.
The memory suddenly changes to one of an angry mother.
Why was she crying? Why was the mother angry?
She remembers not being able to stop. She remembers crying loudly.
Her mother was standing in front of her, soap suds clinging to her hands. Her mother's face contorted by rage. Was it rage? Or was it frustration?
A one year old cannot distinguish the difference.

Then the mother takes a small glass and fills it with water.
She knows this glass. It is the one with a pretty shape, the one that a shrimp cocktail from the A&P comes in. The A&P where that nice man with the black, bushy mustache works. The man that always pinches her cheeks and laughs with sparkling eyes.
The mother puts this glass of water under her highchair and looks at her levelly. She says, with a controlled voice in her lower register, "If you do not stop crying, I will throw this water in your face."

She did not stop crying. Not for 30 years.
And her mother did throw the water in her face.
Over and over and over.

Memory. It is a complicated thing, isn't it?

I Believe

If you have read my blog for any length of time, you will know that I sometimes will include a disclaimer. It is difficult to put words into cyberspace without any body language or tone of voice to make the meaning of the words more exact or precise. So, my disclaimers, more often than not, try to make sure that you, my lone reader (no, not you, the other one), know that I am not crazy, rude or just plain moronic.
This is one of those disclaimer type of bloggings. Here they are:
1. My family would all like you to know that they think I am funny and not serious. They do not believe.
2. I never believed or didn't believe before this thing happened. Completely neutral.
3. I had not been drinking, eating mushrooms, licking toads, or in a sweat house on this day.

Okay, now that that is out of the way, we can get on with it.

I was driving the North Cascades Highway with my kids. It was twilight and just at freezing. And the highway was deserted. We drove about 70 miles without seeing a soul. Just the three of us rambling along at a quick, but very safe pace. We were admiring the changing leaves and wondering if it was going to begin snowing. Okay, I was admiring the leaves. The kids were bickering and touching each other.

Oh, and they were enthralled with the forbidden treat that I let them have in order to buy myself a little peace. Cheetos and Fritos. Yes, sons. Eat this friendly and oh-so-crinkly bag of GMO's.
I know, I know. I go over to the dark side all for 30 minutes of quiet crunching. Sue me.
It was very amusing listening to their conversation in the back seat:
#1: "This one doesn't seem so big."
#2: "I know. Mine aren't so big either."
#1: "Yeah, I don't know what they are talking about."
#2: "Look! This one is a fatty."
#1 "Oh! That is a new bigger size!"
Now it all made sense. The bag said NEW! BIGGER SIZE!

So, while we are driving along and I am making sure that no one is touching anything with those orange, touchy little fingers, I see something that strikes me as not normal. It is about 1/4 mile up the highway on the side of the road. At first, I think that it is a large man wearing dark, winter clothing. This sort of freaks me out, because there is seriously no one around. What if it is a man? What if he flags me down? What will I do? Anxiety wells up.

As I got closer, I had no need to worry. It was clearly not a man.
But just before I got a better look, it slipped down the side of the road into the ravine.
And that was when I knew what I had just seen.
The way it moved was sylphe-like. Almost as if it shimmered away.
I looked back to where it had been, and it had completely disappeared.
So, what was it?
Bigfoot. Or Sasquatch, if you prefer.

Now, if that isn't enough for you, there's more.
About two miles further up the mountain pass, I saw another.
It was a little smaller, but moved in the same graceful manner as it quickly went down the side of the mountain out of my view. The leaves on the tree that it had been next to still gently shook as I drove by.

Are you laughing at me? My husband is.
He says it was probably a bear.
Bears don't just randomly stand up and walk around. And also, very few bears were this big.
He also says that if there were such things, we would have found evidence of them.
I say that if he had seen the way it moved, he might just believe it possible for them to stay completely hidden.

Do I believe? I guess I have to now.
Or I am crazy?

P.S. Did you know that there are many, many stories of a Sasquatch or Skookum among Native American tribes? Particularly those from the Pacific Northwest. If I am crazy, at least I am among good company.

The Problem With Wolverines Can Be Solved With a Honey Badger

So, I opened it.

It was nothing that a good Silkwood Shower and scrubdown with some steel wool couldn't fix.
What? You know not of the Silkwood Shower? Well, watch the award winning movie Silkwood for the full effect.
Too busy? Here, read this. Not quite as uh, violent as the real deal. And by violent, I mean thoroughly cleansing in a highly aggressive and vigorous manner

Now that I am raw and a little bloody, but cleansed, I can share with you another method of dealing with that wolverine that showed up on my otherwise pleasant doorstep.
This one comes via my good friend, Jessi.
Jessi and I have been friends for a veeeryyy long time. In fact, if I told you how long, you would fall over. Then you would ask how that is even possible, as we both don't even look that old. We're not. It's magic.

Jessi knows about the wolverine. Probably better than anyone. And she has helped me deal with the wolverine many times before. Like the time I ran away. Sort of. Or the time she pretended to be the wolverine on the phone to keep me out of trouble with the real deal. Or just the good method of making me laugh. Because as Reader's Digest tells us "laughter is the best medicine".

What does Jessi do? She sends me a link to the Honey Badger video. Sure, I had seen it floating around on the internet, but I never watched it. Until last night. And I'm glad that I did. The honey badger will eat the wolverine.
It doesn't give a s***.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know I have to deal with it, but laughing helps.
Having a less than stellar day? Google honey badger video.
Not appropriate for kids or those sensitive to language.

The Problem With Wolverines

It is sitting there on the counter. Much like a severed hand would.
Okay, that was a little too dramatic.
How about...
It is sitting there on the counter. Much like a ticking time bomb?
Nope.
It is sitting there on the counter. Like an overdue bill.
Not scary enough.
It is sitting there on the counter. Like a rabid wolverine that made its way into my house. And then jumped (do wolverines jump?) onto my kitchen counter and is now hissing (growling?) at me.
I know I have to do something about it, but really I just want it to go away.
Perfect.

What did my husband bring home from the mailbox this morning?
Saturday's mail.
Scary, huh?
It is if it includes a letter with my mom's unmistakeable handwriting on the envelope.
My husband asks me if I want him to open it.
Not yet.
So, there it sits.
Hissing at me every time I walk by it.

I circle it carefully, like a dog.
Watching it warily, but not exactly backing down either.
I'm considering.
Testing.
Waiting.

It is just a letter. I know this. But to open it, means to go to that place.
The place where my thorn resides.
It is deep down inside. It is mostly healed, mostly forgotten. Mostly forgiven.

What does one do with a wolverine?
Something, obviously.
This would be one of those things that a person can't just ignore.
So, like the dog that I am, I'm going to grab it by the neck and shake it a bit.
Or at least open the envelope.

I'll let you know what happens.
Because I'm pretty sure that whatever happens, I am meant to write about it.
Everyone loves a good wolverine story.

Go Ahead and Judge

I am taking a break from my usual healthy eating to eat this thing that I have been craving for days.
Fall always does this to me. All of a sudden, the thought of eating lettuce makes me nauseous. All I want is something warm, substantial and full of fat. I think this is all because this is the time of year when my dosha gets all out of whack. According to Ayurveda, India's 5,000 year old science of life, my dosha is vata.
Now, I am no Hindu, but I have found a lot of truth in this ancient science.
Right now, my cold vata body wants something to make me warm.
Mmmm... yams, squash, curries, eggnog in my coffee.
And the occasional white trash treat that I just ate.
It has no specific name. And the thought of it yanks me straight back to my childhood.

You see, I learned two types of eating from my mom.
The first was healthy. I didn't have a drink of Coke until I was in 4th grade. That was also my 1st trip to McDonald's. Both were a horrid shock, by the way.
No, for all the cockamamie ideas that my mom put in my sponge of a brain, she actually did okay here. We ate pretty healthy meals and even ate bread from a bakery that baked multi-grain bread in a coffee can. And this was in the heyday of Wonderbread. Eating brown bread was just flat out weird.

This lasted right up until my parents lost it and never came home except to throw some frozen food, a sack of potatoes, and a block of cheese at my brother and I and then drive away again not to be seen for days. Often, that was how we knew that either of them had been home - there was a fresh supply of food.
This was the second type of eating that I learned from my mother - WT (that's white trash).

You see, after my brother and I gobbled up the easy to prepare foods dropped off to us, we had to get a little more creative. My brother's specialty was using hotdogs. He was famous for a boiled hot dog sandwich. Well, famous among the other boys in our neighborhood. He also used cut up hotdogs in his version of spaghetti.
Oh, and they were turkey dogs. Because somewhere, my parents were still pretending to be healthy. That's a bit of sarcasm, in case you couldn't smell it from where you sit.

Hot dogs have always made me want to puke, so I developed my own creative specialty. And this, my friends is the nasty, but so tasty treat that I crave from time to time.
When all that is left in your house to eat are some potatoes (and you have already eaten baked potatoes for days on end), cheese, sour cream, and Bernstein's Cheese Fantastico salad dressing, you create this delight:
1. slice potatoes as thin as you possibly can without slicing off your fingers
2. pour some salad dressing into a large frying pan and heat
3. add sliced potatoes
4. cook until crispy or until a small fire breaks out
5. add more salad dressing as needed to make potatoes extra crispy
5. top with grated cheese and sour cream

What did I call this? Duh. Sour Cream and Cheese Potato Chips.

Today, I tried to replicate this by mixing sour cream with some Italian salad dressing and eating it with some Kettle Chips. Not quite the same, but it worked in a pinch.
Go ahead and judge. I'm cool with it.

Dark Into Light

Have you ever read a book by Mary Karr? She wrote Liar's Club, Cherry and Lit. I think also a few books of poetry. She is very well regarded among literary sorts, as she is a Guggenheim Fellow (I, being uneducated and unrefined, don't even know what this actually is, but it sounds impressive), a Pushcart Award winner (again, I have no idea), and New York Times bestseller author (ah, now we are speaking my language).
I first read Liar's Club and was often moved to tears because of some striking similarities between her life and mine.
And I felt like I could understand her because I knew the place from where she wrote. This is a place of deep pain and wound, one that may get covered up, but always remains a little open.
Like a thorn that remains in our side, but possibly for our benefit.

I am now reading Lit, and again, her story moves me. Our similarities diverge at this point in her memoirs. I am not an alcoholic, despite my great love for wine and margaritas. I have never been divorced. My father, while old, is not bed-ridden. Oh, and I don't live in the educated and highbrow circles that she lives in. But there are still some undeniable similarities even beyond our last names. However, as much as you might want to give me that extra R at the end of my name, it isn't mine. Just one R, please. The Persian spelling. It means "work", FYI. My grandfather-in-law chose it himself after the Revolution when all Iranians were forced to pick last names for themselves instead of being known by their tribe. Mohammed chose to be called Mohammed Work. Interesting, huh? This has absolutely nothing to do with this post though.

Mary Karr has this incredible knack for making me want to write. She stirs up that pain deep, deep inside of me. The kind of pain that is useful for creativity. Pain has a way of doing that. It can make you stronger, it can make you more passionate, it can make you more compassionate, it can make you more thankful, it can make you much more whole. And creativity is part of being whole. Of course, you must be willing to allow the pain for good. Because the flip side of all of that is bitter, vile, small, angry and fragmented.

What I am trying to say here is that I want to write from that place of pain. Not in a poor, pitiful me sort of way. But in a healing and cathartic way. One that puts my story out there to become just ashes in the wind. Floating away into nothingness. Please don't misunderstand me here. I am not sad, depressed, hurting, etc. I just have a story to tell. Mary Karr has made me re-realize this.

Sometimes words just flow out. Sometimes all you need to do is open a valve and out they pour. I started writing with three different subjects in mind, not really knowing what would come out. Maybe for some people it is visual art, for others it is movement, or cooking, or building. Do you need to look inwardly today and find that place in you which needs to come out? Turn on your creative faucet. See what comes out. It might turn something not so pretty into a work of art.

And possibly you too can be a Guggenheim Fellow. Not like me, but like that other Karr. With both R's.

Darkly and Realistically Optimistic

I'm going to tell you a little dark secret of mine.
I am an optimist.
Oh, I have tried and tried to be dark and pessimistic since preteen years.
If you knew me in high school, you might remember my days of wearing only black. This was before emo was even a word (and for the record, Scrabble does not recognize it as a word still). Yes, black trench coats stolen from Value Village, black make-up around my eyes and Peter Murphy on the stereo. Black.
I tried to say that I hated dogs because they were so happy.
I wrote poetry about death and killing myself.
I tried to sleep in a cemetery (but instead, I chickened out).
And I claimed that I would never allow myself to love anyone, because that just leads to pain.

Oh, brother.

Then I decided that I was really a realist.
Just in the middle.
And I hate the middle.

But the hard truth is that I'm an optimist.
I'm not black and dark. I am orange.
I always really believe that things are going to work out.
I believe wholeheartedly in love.
And dogs? I am a bonafide sucker for 'em.
(Are you catching my little plays on words there? Love=wholeheartedly, dogs=bonafide. I amuse myself to no end.)
And while I still enjoy a little 80's music, I prefer to listen to The Cure's Love Song or Love Cats to their more funereal Just One Kiss or Primary.

Really? Who cares?
I am only writing all of this drivel to tell you something very optimistic.

One good thing about getting grey (yes, I can use this spelling because my mom is Canadian, eh) hair is that when hairs pop out in the most strange of spots, they are barely visible.
There you have it.
Optimistic.

P.S. I stole the picture used in this blog from my absolutely beautiful and optimistic second cousin.

Part 2

so, if my heart were ripped open


if that tenuous little string
that bound me
to You
became nothing but ashes
that floated on the wind


if the thin membrane of my heart
had a gash
that were as wide and deep
as the amazon,
what would you see?
what would spill out for the world
to mock, to scorn, to judge?


would it be as a looking glass, alice?


would you see anything of worth
anything of beauty?
anything pure?

only the space that held you.

but in the moment
that the string


that tenuous string
that binds
my heart
to You


succumbs to the fire
and my heart, alone and desperate,
begins to swallow the world,

it stops.
all the universe takes pause.

as You
hold my heart
in your hand.

with your breath upon me,
my heart is healed and whole


You alone knows what it holds


with such tenderness
that I can barely stand
You
who holds my heart in Your hand
weave a string
a tenuous string
made from tears

glistening and as salty as all of the oceans

that binds my heart
to
You.

Part 1

shall my heart be ripped open?

for the tenuous string that binds
my heart
to you

is being held over the raging fire.

hungry flames leap and dance
with a feverish pitch.

coals from the black depths
of Hell
sparked this fire
that seeks to devour
that tenuous string that binds
my heart
to you.

shall my heart be ripped open?

Good Things

There are some things that fill my heart to the bursting point. Here they are in no particular order:

My sons.
These are some good boys. Good. Solid good.
I love watching them ride their bikes to the bus stop in the mornings, backpacks on and a violin case sticking out of the top of Sebastian's.
I love that my self-proclaimed tough boy sleeps with a little stuffed bunny that his 3 year old cousin didn't want.
I love that Bellamy tells me "thank you" for dinner every night, without fail.
I love that he also was thankful and grateful that I bought him 2 packs of new socks.
I love reading A Wrinkle in Time to them and Sebastian asking more about different dimensions.
I love that they both unashamedly kiss me on the lips even in front of their friends.
I love that Sebastian reads labels of containers and knows that high fructose corn syrup is no good. Or that he has playground conversations with his friend about the reasons why we should not buy so many things that are from China.
I love that Bellamy tries and keeps on trying in everything he does.

My husband.
He is a good man.
He wants to improve.
He is strong enough to rethink his position on things.
He is building our sons that best tree house ever.
He adores me.
He knows what is important.

My home and community.
This is a special place.
It is safe.
People care about one another.
It is accepting.
We share knowledge.
The beauty that I see just out my door is staggering.

These are all Good Things.

I originally started out this blog post by writing about Martha Stewart. Because I always think of her when I think of the term "Good Things". And my writing turned quite snarky. It entailed the cult of perfectionism and some funny, but pretty mean examples. You know - perfectly staged parties, perfectly decorated cookies and cupcakes, perfectly seasonal home decor, perfect family, perfect lives. I know all of this because I used to be a disciple of Martha and all of her perfect ways. But I can tell you now, those are not Good Things.
Ask Martha's daughter.
Apparently she wrote a book that ripped Martha a new one.
No big surprise there.
But maybe Martha can fix that new one with her hot glue gun.
Okay, I know that was snarky. Sorry. But it was funny, yes?

What's my point with all of this?
There is so much goodness all around you that you don't need to go creating it.
It is already there. You just need to see it.

P.S. Apparently I have already written about Martha and perfectionism before - here .
What can I say?

A Helpful Tip

Every now and then I remember that my hokey little byline on my hokey little blog here says something about tips. I have been lax in the tip department. I realize this. I think that I have been pretty lax in the funny story department too. In order to remedy this (because I have standards to keep up, you know), I will attempt to give you a two-in-one. Yes, both a tip and a funny. Simultaneously. Get ready. Drumroll, please....

If you have sons, never vigorously reach into their dirty clothes basket and grab a big armful.
Instead, be very careful, knowing that dirty underwear lurks in and among the shirts and shorts.
Dirty underwear in which an eight year old boy might have crossed the line between skid and all-out accident.

What? Everyone thinks poop is funny.
Just not on your hands. Gack.

More On That F Word

Do you see themes running through your life?
If you do, what do you attribute them to?
And if you don't, why do you suppose not? Are you just hurtling all willy nilly through time and space? The ultimate in go with the flow? I'm not saying one is right and one is wrong, because who am I that I could make such judgment? But, I do ponder how one could live and not wrestle with large scale themes.
You know the ones: anger, bitterness, justice, love, forgiveness, trust, acceptance, pride.
Did I leave any out?
Perhaps that real biggie... Eggnog - delicious seasonal treat or disgusting chicken embryo mixed with breast milk from bovine? For the record, I've wrestled with this. Verdict: Eggnog for the win!

In all seriousness, there has been this theme of forgiveness that has been a constant flow through my life. And the strangest thing is that I really have never been one to harbor a grudge. I might cut you off like a rotten foot, but I won't wish for a swarm of yellow jackets to smell your rotten meat and go after you. You know what I mean? Maybe you don't.

So, if you are with me about life themes (wow, I feel like I might be sounding a little Oprahmatic here), what do you attribute them to? God, Universe, Allah, Karma, Flying Spaghetti Monster? Is there something bigger than yourself out there that is weaving that one beautiful thread through your life that you cannot ignore?
When I look at that thread, all I can see is God. Don't tune me out now. I am not going to thump you on the noggin. All I want to do is share. Take it, leave it. But if we fear sharing our beliefs - about important things - have we not lost an important pillar in our society?

Here is an example for you. I used to be Pro Death Penalty. And now I am not. In fact, it now brings me to tears when I think about it. So, what changed? How did I flip 180 degrees in my beliefs? Because people that I respected shared their thoughts with me. My mind is open and I received what they had to say, then I thought about it. It sunk deep into my heart and it changed.
Of course it helped that the discussions were not hostile and were non-accusatory. Name calling closes people's minds faster than those yellow jackets would find that rotten foot that I previously mentioned.

Forgiveness.
I have been forgiven much. How can I not forgive much? And then more?
When I wrote about Facing the Dragon, that was where my forgiveness grew from.
I have been forgiven much.
And here is the kicker. The punchline, if you will.
Several days before my opportunity to forgive, in that story about Mrs. Kim, a friend of mine sent me this verse completely out of the blue. Yes, from the bible.

"Listen to me, you who know right from wrong you who cherish my law in your hearts. Do not be afraid of people's scorn, nor fear their insults."

When thinking about Mrs. Kim, I also thought about this verse. And I knew what it meant for me. At that particular moment in time. Because I do know right from wrong, and I do cherish the law to love and to forgive in my heart. And I knew to not be afraid, and just do what I knew was right.

Forgiveness.

How I wrote about forgiveness, eggnog, yellow jackets and a rotten foot all in one post, I have no idea.
Life is weird. And then some.

Facing the Dragon

I read something really good the other day.
It went something like this - Forgive the sins of others. After all, what are YOU going to do with them?
How true is that?
Sometimes forgiveness takes a long time.
Sometimes it goes through a bunch of layers.
Most of the time it is an ongoing process and struggle. Because let's face it, it can be enjoyable to hold a grudge.
But it can also be toxic.
I have written quite a few posts about forgiveness. Probably because I think that life boils down to two things:
Love and Forgiveness.
Maybe that is oversimplifying things just a bit. But simple is good.

I have been trying to write this blog post for days. But the right words just weren't coming. I want to tell you about something really, really good. Something hugely liberating. And something that to some might seem backwards and weird, but to me seems like the rightest thing ever. And all at the same time, I am trying to keep within my subject that I had previously said that I was going to write about. Are you following me?
Then I just re-read what I just wrote - simple is good.
So, I will just keep it simple and you can connect the dots.

If you have been reading my blog, you might know about some of these lawsuits that people have brought against us. One lawsuit in particular had been going on for years and was for a lot of money. Money that we do not have. It finally came to an end in June, with the jury finding us in favor of 2 of the 3 claims. This is good. Not exactly what we had hoped for, but still good.

Now, one of the strangest things about this lawsuit is that the people that were suing us, were still our wholesale customers. They never quit and we never stopped supplying them. Weird, huh?
Over the last couple of years, they fell behind on their payments and eventually racked up a pretty decent sized balance. It was nothing close to what we owe them or their attorneys, but it was still a large amount for them to get behind. Yet, we still continued to supply them.

A few weeks ago, I had to return to working in our business. One of my first tasks was to dig into the accounts receivable and start shaking people down that owed us money. Including these people that sued us. It had been my plan to really put the screws to them. So, I make my first call to the wife. We'll call her Mrs. Kim.
I knew that her English was not very good, but I had no idea that it was really not very good. And it is hard to put the screws to someone when you have no idea what they are saying. Especially over the phone.

But luckily for me, she picks her orders up herself instead of having them delivered. And she had an order sitting at Will Call. So, I put the word out that I should be notified when Mrs. Kim was picking up her order.
The day ended - no Mrs. Kim.
At least not in person. She had been on my mind all day. And I had turned her into a giant dragon in my mind.
Scary, vicious, fire-breathing.

Then the next morning, as I was getting ready to head in to the office, I just knew I was going to see her that day. And I knew that instead of putting the screws to her, I was going to do some bridge building. She was still going to have to pay up, but she could at least walk across the nice little bridge that I was building to hand over the cash. Heh.

Afternoon came. I was in a heated, emotional meeting. The meeting ended, I walked out of the conference room and smack into Mrs. Kim.

Was she a dragon? Hardly.
And here is what happened...
I smiled, greeted her, and took her to a meeting area.
There, Mrs Kim and I talked, held hands and cried.
She told me she was sorry, I told her that I forgave her.
Unlike what I had thought, they had been going through some similar hard times too.
Including having to sell their house on a short sale.
I told her that I would help her and help her improve her business.

Then I talked to my husband and we decided to forgive their debt to us.
So we did.

Three years ago, I would never have done that.
Today I can tell you that the saying "It is more blessed to give than to receive" is hugely true.
You go ahead and connect the dots.

Roadkill

This is the time of the year where we switch from trying to miss deer on the road, to trying to miss squirrels (or are they chipmunks)? And not just squirrels running all zigzaggedly back and forth, but the dead ones that have already met their demise.

Today, while driving on my little mountain road, I had to swerve to miss one of the passed on squirrels.
There he was - on his back, white tummy showing, four legs sticking straight up.
And next to him were two large pine cones.
And it became quite obvious how Mr. Squirrel met his end.

He had grabbed too much. He was greedy. He might have made it with those two pine cones. But then a car came upon him. He should have dropped them both and ran for his life on a straight course right across the road into the safety of the trees. But he got confused. He ran one way, then the other. Then he froze completely, paralyzed by the indecision. And greed won. Thump - thump.

Aw, sorry little buddy. I know what it is like. I've been there myself.
I'm just grateful that God gave me another chance to do the right thing.
Drop the pine cones, man.

Sleeping Zen

I often write blog posts in my sleep. That would probably explain some of the herky-jerky switching around between 1st person and 3rd person that happens when one writes posts for this blog. See what I mean? It would also account for too many commas or lack of things such as : or ;. And no, I am not trying to be cute. I really mean colons or semi colons. Apparently I was asleep on the day that the use of them was discussed in school.
Asleep and not writing blog posts.

But sadly, when I say that I write blog posts in my sleep, I really don't mean that I sleepwalk to my computer and pump out this drivel. I just mean that it all forms in my mind, and then sometimes when I wake up, I will actually write it. But sometimes it disappears right around the time that I drink my second cup of coffee. And that might be for the best.

Last night though, in my Excedrin PM induced slumber, I wrote something on the computer of my mind. And it had to do with tying together the last two posts that I wrote. Because the 1st post in August was about telling a testimony. And then the 2nd was about a ridiculous car break down and some naked bicyclists. Now, to me this makes perfect sense, but in my sleep I realized that to everyone else, it makes no sense. Especially because I did not actually see naked cyclists. So, here are some things that I remember from last night:

I learned some valuable things on top of a mountain with a broken down car.
1. Sometimes it is good to set aside an agenda to do what is right in front of you. HELP OTHERS
2. People have become so afraid of other people that they let fear rule them. FEAR NOT
3. Something as simple as a broken down car can send a family into the abyss of losing everything and not being able to ever get ahead. PRACTICE COMPASSION
4. Most things are not really that big of a deal as we make them. LIVE IN THE PRESENT

These are things that link together the story of my life. Of the journey that began way over there and is now right here. The evolving and changing of a heart and a soul. Making something shiny and lovely out of something hard and dirty. Something that I absolutely could not do on my own.
But a journey it is. Wrong side paths are taken, but how can they be wrong if on the doubling back, something is eventually learned?

I'm pretty zen.
Or tired.

Anyhow, yesterday I picked up a hitchhiker and took him as far as I could.

I Solemnly Swear To Tell the Truth

Look! It is the second day in a row that I have written something! It almost didn't happen.
Let me tell you the story.
Due to circumstances that I will probably write about at some point soon, I have had to go back to work in our coffee roasting business. I have not worked in the business for over 11 years. So, stepping back in after being a housewife is crazy.
And then to be wearing a number of different hats that don't quite fit right is as crazy as if I were wearing one of those yodeler hats on top of a top hat while walking down the freeway in the pouring rain with my two kids hanging on my legs. All while being chased by a pack of wolves.
Are you getting a picture yet?

So, I am working back in the business, but did I mention that we live about 200 miles away from our business? This wouldn't be such a major issue,as I can do a lot of work from home, except that we have 2 young children and a dog. It isn't like I can just jump in the car and go. However today, was going to be one of the days that we jump in the car and go. This is why I almost didn't have an opportunity to write today. But, that hardly matters. Anyhow.

We make all the necessary plans - someone to watch the kids, someone to watch the dog, a place to stay, packing for everyone. We get up early this morning and get ready to leave. My husband is putting everything in the car and I say, "we're going to take that car?" (this is the miracle Volvo with 250,000 miles that we just got back from the shop). He says that we are, because it gets better gas mileage and is the car we don't mind loading up with miles obviously. I ask him if he is sure and he says he is. Ooooo-kaay.

This is the part of my story where you would hear ominous music, if this were a movie and not a blog. Since it is just a blog, you'll just have to imagine for now. Now back to my story.

We get to driving. Did I mention that we live across a mountain pass from our business? We do.
On our way up the pass, the fan/radiator light deal comes on. This is bad news because the repair that the car just had done was a new fan. But we drive on until it just pretty much conks out. We're on the side of the road, so it isn't that big of a deal. I figure that we will just have to fill the radiator with water and be good to go.
While we were at it, my husband puts in some oil and even some gas performance stuff into the tank.
We all get back in and start 'er up. Aaaannnd... nothing except a wheeze.

Did I mention that there isn't cell phone reception for about 40 miles from where we are? There's not.
We try to start multiple more times, we pray, my nervous son cries and freaks out, and we then decide to hitchhike back home and get the other car. But remember there are four of us and a large dog. Probably not the most conducive for getting a ride. So, I decide to stay at the car with my calmer son and the dog. My husband goes onto the road and starts trying to get a ride. I thought it would be easy. It was not. We were there for close to two hours while many people with empty cars drove by, a few people stopped but wouldn't give them a ride, and a motorcyclist stopped to just try to help.

Finally a nice family in a large SUV stops. They weren't really planning on driving as far as we needed to go, but they had nothing else going on, so they offer to take them all the way. Then they see that there are two more of us plus the dog. And they practically force us to get in too. Did I mention that they were nice?

And now, we are back at home. While this was not the way we thought things were going to go, it certainly could have been worse. And it all turned out for the best anyhow. The place that my husband and I were going to stay at (on trade for coffee) turned out to be all full. One of the tasks that we were planning on doing over at our offices was to do a major clean and reorganize party with our staff. Well, it turned out that not everyone was going to be able to help out anyhow. And, I got to write this blog post after all. Which maybe isn't such a big deal, but maybe to someone it just might be. I am learning that things are not always as they appear.

Was this boring? Here, I'll tell you one last thing that might spice it up some.
While we were waiting for a ride at the top of the pass, a whole slew of bicyclists came by. I'm talking 50 or so.
And they were all naked.

That part didn't actually happen, but I bet you thought my story was at least a little more interesting for a second, didn't you?